The lions, if they left not the forest, would capture no prey; and
the arrow, if it quitted not the bow, would not strike the mark.
--_Arabian Nights._
The precise date of my story does not matter: the world strikes a much
more even average than we are apt to think; and still, as of old, "the
thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is
done, is that which shall be done."
Once upon a time, then, there was a boy whose name was Charlemagne
Kindred.
"Magnus" was the home version. I think his two young sisters were
perhaps rather proud of the royal-republican title, and would by no
means let it come down to "Charley," and so lose itself in the crowd.
Once in a while, when a longer lecture than usual was called for, Mrs.
Kindred would say Charlemagne: but I doubt if it had much effect,
unless to give Magnus some slighting thoughts of the ancestor who had
first borne his name.
Mrs. Kindred was a widow of ten years' standing; and she and Magnus,
and the two young sisters, made up the family. There is nothing on
earth sweeter than girls can be; and these two filled out the fair
pattern, with few breaks or flaws. But no history or inheritance of
even a name had been wasted on them, and they set out in life as plain
Rose and Violet, named for their father's favourite flowers.
Magnus had not at all, however, the same reverence for his sisters that
they felt for him, which was a pity; for really I think they deserved
it better.
But another drawback to the perfections of my hero,--a common one
enough with heroes, and which after all proved him the real thing,--he
had not five cents to his name. And failing this, the question came up
very naturally, what else he could have "to his name," to make that
worth the carrying.
"Mamma, he'd make a beautiful minister!" said Rose, who, enshrined in
the very rosiest corner of her heart, had a faint, far-away picture of
her father in the pulpit.
"He would make a beautiful anything," said the mother, her eyes shining
at the mere thought of her boy. "But he cannot be a minister, Rose, at
least not in his father's church, without going to college."
"And that takes money," said Violet. "Mamma, if I were Uncle Sam, I'd
have free colleges. I can't see why not, just as well as free schools."
"I do not like to hear you say 'Uncle Sam,' Violet. It is not
respectful to the Government."
"Magnus does."
Mrs. Kindred might have answered that the bump of reverence was not as
yet developed in that young magnate's head to any alarming degree, but
no such disloyal words came out. She sat thinking.
"The Government has one free college, you know, girls," she said; "at
least, I suppose it may be called that. Two, in fact: the Naval Academy
at Annapolis, and the Military Academy at West Point. I wonder it never
occurred to me before."
"West Point!" exclaimed both the girls, open-eyed.
"Then he'd be a soldier, and wear a uniform," said Violet.
"Yes, and then there would be a war, and he would get killed," said
Rose.
"No, he wouldn't," said Violet. "Catch Magnus letting anybody shoot
_him_. He's a good deal too quick for that. Besides, people can get
killed anywhere. Missionaries do, sometimes."
"I wonder I never thought of West Point," Mrs. Kindred repeated. "Hush,
girls; don't say such things. There is no war now, and maybe there
never will be again. Magnus would like it, too."
"He'd be splendid in uniform," said Rose, "he's so tall."
"Too tall," said the mother with a sigh. "Magnus grows altogether too
fast. Perhaps West Point would be just the thing for him, and make him
spread out a little. You know, girls, what big fellows some of those
army men are, in papa's book of officers?"
"Yes," said Violet doubtfully, "big enough. But then Magnus never could
be as broad as he is long, so we needn't worry."
A cheery whistle, strong and sweet and clear, pierced through the
summer air outside; and with one consent the three talkers hurried
to the window to look out. It was a back window, commanding easily a
woodshed, a small garden, and a barn.
In the woodshed, hard at work upon a somewhat elaborate dog-house,
stood the young future victim of mathematics and wave motion. Coat off,
hat tossed down, hands busily chiselling out some bit of ornamentation;
the head with its shock of brown curls bent low over his work. And very
appropriately just then, for the thoughts that filled the air, Magnus
was whistling "Yankee Doodle": his limber young tones going with great
force and discernment into all the ups and downs of that delightful
old melody. Do not mistake me and think the words ironical; I am
extremely fond of "Yankee Doodle," myself.
"How queer he should be whistling that!" said Rose. "Oh, Magnus!"
"Hello!"
"Come up here. We were just talking about you."
"Talk away."
"But mother and all!"
"Good I am down here, then," said the boy, eyeing a bit of board along
the edge to see if it was straight.
"Why?" cried Violet.
"You know she doesn't like to praise me to my face," said Magnus,
carefully planing the aforesaid edge.
"Conceited boy!" said Rose.
Well, I suppose he was that, just a little; but what can happen to
average masculine nature, with three such bits of the feminine to stand
round and gaze at its perfections? Magnus brought his board to a nicety
of straightness, tossed off the shavings, gave another toss to his
brown hair--then looked up at the sweet cluster of faces in the window
and laughed.
"All's safe up there, so long as I stay down here," he said.
The three were silent.
"He is such a beauty!" said Rose under her breath. "He grows better and
handsomer every day."
"But we want to talk to you!" said Violet.
"I can wait."
"Suppose we cannot?"
"Front door's open," said Magnus, falling to work with his hammer, and
once more lapsing into the sweets of "Yankee Doodle."
"Mother, may we tell him?" said Rose. "May we ask him how he'd like
it?"
"Why, yes, dear; that can do no harm," said Mrs. Kindred.
So the girls went down to the woodshed, perching themselves on some
hard places each side of their big brother.
"Magnus, how would you like to be a soldier?"
"When there's a war, you'll see."
That was beginning at the wrong end; the two young faces grew suddenly
grave. But, after all, there was no war then, and probably never would
be, as their mother had said.
"But we mean _now_," Rose went on. "How would you like to go to West
Point?"
"What for?"
"Why, to learn to be a soldier!" said Violet impressively.
Magnus laughed in high derision.
"Soldiers!" he said--"Popinjays. Parrots and popinjays. There was one
of those fellows at Clear Spring last summer, and he had airs enough to
fly a kite with a tail a mile long."
Again the two young sisters were silent.
"But _you_ would not, Magnus, when you came home," said Violet. "Oh,
Rose! just think of his coming home on vacation!"
"And if all the rest are like that, you could be what mamma calls
a 'beautiful example,'" said Rose. "I heard Cherry speak of that
'fellow,' as you call him. She said his uniform was very interesting."
"Cherry doesn't care a copper for such stuff!" said Magnus hotly.
"I suppose she can admire a uniform," said Rose.
But to that Magnus made no reply.